


Plenty

by Roselightfairy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (but no explicit romance), Cultural Sharing, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Erebor, Established Relationship, Food, Gifts, Handholding, M/M, Marketplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28429875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Legolas and Gimli spend a pleasant afternoon at the Erebor winter market together, reveling in the pleasure of good food and good friends.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 20
Kudos: 94
Collections: Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2020





	Plenty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking) in the [LotR_SeSa_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LotR_SeSa_2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> I love these two, in any configuration. Romantic Gigolas and a enemies-to-friends Gigolas are both amazing - but I must admit that queerplatonic Gigolas is my favorite. Still, literally anything with them having fun together (perhaps begrudgingly?) would be amazing!
> 
> ... I’m thinking all about warm drinks and good foods this time of year, so I thought I’d try my hand at writing about an Erebor winter market, sort of modeled after a German Weihnachtsmarkt. Also, I didn’t write them _explicitly_ queerplatonic, but I did my best to make the relationship committed but ambiguous as to its romantic status. I hope this satisfies!

“Hot apples – with cinnamon?”

“That will be Gudrun’s applesauce,” Gimli said. “She is a new vendor this year, but my mother says that her pancakes are a dream and her applesauce better still. We will have to stop by her stall today.”

Legolas sighed happily at the thought. His stomach felt like the hall they were walking through: so empty it echoed. The architecture of Erebor – the vast halls with their arched ceilings and walls instead of windows – was still strange to him; his own father’s halls were built to mimic the forest itself as closely as possible, with winding tunnels draped in living greenery and openings to the air wherever possible. But the spaciousness here was all the better to heighten the anticipation of the winter market; the scents swirled through the air in a tantalizing dance, wrapping playfully around one another and then separating again. Legolas inhaled deeply once more and sifted through them, following each strand of scent back to its source. Meat, so heavy and rich with spices that Legolas could practically taste it, sinking lower to cushion the warm bittersweet steam, laced with just a whisper of mystery –

“The beef skewers,” Legolas said aloud, his mouth watering. “And hot spiced wine.”

“Classics.” Gimli nodded approvingly. “Ah, I can practically taste it already. Perhaps this game was a mistake.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish to stop?”

“No,” said Gimli. “The pleasure is that much greater after such heightened anticipation. But I do look forward to having a warm mug of wine in my hands.” He gave an affected shiver for emphasis.

Legolas laughed, shifting to lay his arms over Gimli’s shoulders and enclose the dwarf’s hands in his own. “This will suffice in the meantime, I hope?”

“If it must,” sighed Gimli – but he could not sustain the feigned resignation for long; his sigh tapered into a chuckle and he leaned back into Legolas’s hold, his winter furs whispering against Legolas’s tunic.

“I will tell my father that you grumble of the cold even in your own family’s halls,” Legolas threatened. Gimli’s lack of tolerance for the cold had become nearly legendary in the Woodland Realm, to the point that at least three elves had gone out of their way unasked to bring him extra blankets at this year’s feast, presenting them with laughing bows. “That will take the teeth out of your complaints at our celebrations.”

“Will it? Or will it only make clearer what you demand of me? Even the mountain is not warm enough in the depths of winter; sitting outdoors in such weather as this is more than any dwarf should be expected to withstand.”

Legolas leaned down to rest his chin against Gimli’s hair for just a moment, unable to keep back a fond smile. “But it is a worthy sacrifice for the festivities.”

“I suppose so,” Gimli admitted. “And since we speak of festivities – what else?”

Legolas breathed in again, re-centering himself in their game. “Roasted chestnuts,” he said, letting their warm, nutty scent play at the back of his throat for a moment, along with something sweeter, slow and sticky. “Molasses.” The warmer foods were easier to detect, but if he focused, he could identify – yes. “Many different kinds of cheese, though I am not familiar enough with those. Yet.” He licked his lips. “Perhaps you were right about the drawbacks of this game.”

“Patience is a skill taught to dwarrowlings in their youth.”

“A skill they evidently grow out of once they have reached majority!”

The echoes of their laughter mingled with the sounds from the market hall – chatter and bustling, the mouthwatering sizzle of grilling meat, the clank of coin – and drew glances from other dwarves making their own way to – or from – the market. Those glances were less hostile than they might once have been; Legolas had been here often enough by now to be a familiar sight in the mountain, but still the dwarves always looked first to their joined hands.

They released their clasp now so they each might raise a hand in greeting – “Do not acknowledge their concerns,” Gimli had advised him long ago. “It only fuels them.” – but Legolas caught one of Gimli’s hands again and they continued on in that more seemly arrangement.

The central market hall could be reached in many different ways, but Gimli turned them down a narrow alley, its stone rougher and walls closer than the grand polished hall of before. The scents felt even warmer and thicker in this small space, and Legolas reveled in them as they continued their game. His body was not affected by the cold as was Gimli’s, but seeking closeness and comfort amidst the chill and threat of winter was an instinct to him, honed since his childhood. Winter in Mirkwood was a cruel season indeed, for more reasons than the cold – and though the shadow was passing now, the elves’ traditions remained intact.

As did the dwarves’.

There were many reasons to be glad for Gimli and what he had brought to Legolas’s life, but one of the indulgent delights came in sharing their traditions: visiting their families for the early-winter feast in Mirkwood and then following it with the winter market in Erebor. Even the most recalcitrant elves and the most obstinate dwarves were inclined to be welcoming with their food and cheer in this coldest time of year.

“What are you thinking?” said Gimli, and only then did Legolas notice that he had not asked a question in some time, that quiet had fallen between them apart from the distant bustle of the marketplace.

“How glad I am to be here with you,” was all he said.

“Ah,” said Gimli. “And here I was sure you were dreaming about roasted chestnuts.”

Legolas had to laugh. “I can think about more than one thing at a time. Though I can now make a guess at _your_ thoughts!”

Gimli gave him an impish, unapologetic smile and swung their joined hands. His purse jingled comfortably at the motion – as full as their stomachs were empty, but by this evening it would be the other way around.

And then they rounded the last corner and the market opened up before them.

As always, it was a glory of colors, sounds, and scents, a feast for all the senses. The market stalls lined all sides of the wide hall – nestled in together, only leaving gaps at each entrance – decorated with twinkling candles and gems and displaying all manner of offerings. There were handmade crafts of all sorts, from intricate jewelry to ingenious home furnishings to wonderful children’s toys – they would have to purchase something for Sam’s children, which would give Legolas excuse to stare enraptured at the skill with which they had been crafted. Still other dwarves offered services, from the promise of musical or dramatic performances to massage to fortune-telling (which Gimli had had to drag Legolas away from last year, despite Legolas’s protest that he was only interested in the spectacle).

But most impressive of all was the _food_ : vast arrays of it, trays of sugar-dusted pastries lingering golden brown in the corner of the eye; cured meats dangling from metal hooks off of which vendors would shave cuts to serve. Kettles and pots of mulled wine and cider; meat grilled until tender and then skewered on sticks to eat while browsing – and still more vendors cooking dishes as they were ordered, meant to be eaten while seated. Tables stretched across the center of the hall between the stalls, with gaps for braziers where dwarves might warm their hands. And in the very center of the hall was a raised dais – where musical and dance performances would be held later in the evening.

Legolas stopped short in the entryway at the sight of it all – no matter how often he had come here, he still needed this moment to center himself, to breathe it in. Gimli’s hand jerked in his as he halted, but the dwarf did not tug him further – only turned to face him and reached up with his free hand to cup the back of Legolas’s neck and guide his head down until their foreheads were pressed together.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Legolas exhaled, leaning into the grounding presence of Gimli before him. “Of course,” he said. “I have been ready for days.”

“Then let us go,” said Gimli, tugging at last. “I need spiced wine, or I shall expire on the spot.”

“What was it you said about patience being taught to young dwarrowlings?” Legolas teased, but he let himself be drawn into the bustle.

Gimli’s favorite wine vendor – Legolas had learned his name once, but he so rarely needed it that it had slipped away into the recesses of his memory – was only a few stalls away; Legolas trailed behind Gimli, letting his eyes travel over the stalls in between. Knitwear and ear adornments – nothing he needed at the moment, though he might tease Gimli gently over the former.

The wine vendor greeted them with a smile when they reached his stall. “Good afternoon, good afternoon!” he said. “Wine already?”

“The better to get it before you have been bought out!” said Gimli with a flash of his most charming smile. Even the elderly dwarf was not immune to it, it seemed, and he smiled back as he ladled up two steaming mugs for them. “And anyway,” Gimli jerked his free thumb at Legolas, “wood-elves can drink wine at any time in the day.”

“It is true,” Legolas put in as Gimli counted out a handful of coins. He always insisted on paying when they visited Erebor, though they both knew it mattered not from whose purse the coin came. At least half the price was for the large clay mugs in which the wine was served – meant to provide an incentive to return them, should they want their coin back, though Legolas had at least one of these mugs on a shelf in his home in Ithilien – and possibly another in their rooms in Aglarond, though he could not be certain if that had come from this vendor or someone else.

“Well,” said the vendor, “I wish you both a fine afternoon.” He passed over the new clay mugs, and they bade him farewell and stepped back from his stall – already a line was forming behind them – before taking their first sips.

The scent rose in a cloud as Legolas raised his mug to his lips, sweet-spiced steam swirling around him. Even the slightest hint of that combination of clove and cinnamon and anise, caught at someone else’s table, always immersed him instantly back in this space: the laughter, the indulgence, the warmth of Gimli’s hand in his own.

He met Gimli’s eyes now over the rim of the mug, those eyes so fond and crinkled at the corners in a smile. Gimli raised his mug in a silent toast and Legolas tapped his own against it, and then they drank.

“Ah,” Gimli sighed, lowering his mug and smacking his lips. “I never truly feel the season has begun until I have had my first sip of this.”

“And the season is something to delight in?” teased Legolas. Even now, years later, he was too used to the memories of winter in Mirkwood as a lean and hungry season, the long nights terrorized by the forces of Dol Guldur and most of the animals they hunted hidden away from the cold weather and the enemy alike. He did not feel the cold the way Gimli did, but he felt it in his soul sometimes, when the chill of the wind reminded him of those times.

Gimli did not laugh with him; he looked around seriously and said, “It is now.”

That brought Legolas up short. It was easy to forget, in this comforting space, but the dwarves here shared his understanding of the hardships of the season. Gimli’s family had been established in the Ered Luin by the time he was born, but he had told Legolas once that most of these dwarves had spent many a long hungry winter in their early lives.

It cast a new light on the market’s excesses – it was the same as the winter feasts in Mirkwood, a shout of defiance at the world that had kept them fleeing and fighting for so long. After years in exile, homeless before settling in the Ered Luin; after so long being denied the glory of their halls and their homeland, now they could revel in their plenty.

“I know,” said Legolas now to Gimli. “And it is a delight to share it with you.”

“Good,” said Gimli, and he removed one hand from his mug to catch Legolas’s again, lacing their fingers together. “Then let us begin! I promised Nali I would pay a visit to his jewelry stall, and Henni has made her famous buns . . .”

Legolas let himself be drawn along again, to the next stall and the next. He always let Gimli take the lead for the pleasure of watching the delight on his face as he tugged Legolas over to some stall or another, admiring some fine bit of metalwork or exclaiming over a cunning new bit of kitchenware. His purse, bulging at the beginning of the day, shrank as he plunked down coin after coin for some trinket or another on which Legolas’s hands lingered, despite his protests that he needed nothing. Half of these trinkets would find their way to Gimli’s own shelves, anyway, Legolas knew – but Gimli bought them more for the pleasure of the gift than anything else. And because of that, it was as much of a joy for him to watch Gimli buy them, the way his eyes shone with pride as he presented Legolas with each new find.

And then there was the food. Ah, the food.

Their choices were determined largely by whether or not their hands were occupied when they passed each stall – a skewer of tender-cooked beef and mushrooms each; then, licking the sauce off their fingers, a honey-glazed bun stuffed with sweet preserves. A wedge of cheese, pepper-crusted but white and herb-flecked inside, split between them. Two small cloth bags of roasted chestnuts – one for them to share, one to bring to Gimli’s friend Nali at his stall. They chose food they could eat while walking at first, though when the musicians began to perform doubtless they would find themselves a dish of something and seats at one of the tables. But for now they made their way around the whole perimeter of the market hall, stopping to greet Gimli’s friends and relatives.

Nali hailed them when they approached his stall, sweeping an arm out over his wares. Legolas did not have his father’s skill in assessing gemstones, but Nali’s artistry was plain even to the untrained eye, the candlelight of the market twinkling off the facets of each stone like stars before Legolas’s eyes.

“Welcome, Gimli, Legolas,” said Nali. “It seems you are making the most of the offerings here.” His eyes lingered on Legolas’s neck and wrists, laden with new jewelry. “I hope you have enough space yet on your person – and coin in your purse – for something of mine, as well!”

“Here is the magpie,” said Legolas, nudging Gimli with his shoulder. “You would do better to ask him; I am only here to hold his purchases.”

“Insolence,” said Gimli, though his mustache twitched with a smile. “What I put up with! You wait, I will not open my purse when next something catches your eye.”

“Yes, you will,” said Legolas and Nali at the same time, and burst out laughing.

“Betrayal!” exclaimed Gimli. “Perhaps I will repay you by eating these myself.” He produced the bag of chestnuts with a flourish and dangled them before Nali’s stall. “So much for the generosity of the season. We thought since you are tethered to your wares, you might like these – but since they were paid for from my purse, perhaps I ought to keep them for myself.”

“I take back my words!” yelped Nali, holding his hand out as Gimli played the bag over it, mock-snatching it away at the last moment. “Forgive me, Legolas; I am too easily bought.”

“I lay no blame,” said Legolas as Nali at last swiped the bag from Gimli’s hands. “These chestnuts are worth anyone’s integrity.”

Nali grumbled something, but his mouth was full, and none of them could sustain the pretense of ire, not on such a day. What Gimli had said – the generosity of the season – it was a jest in the moment, perhaps, but more than that it was true, plain to be seen not only in the luxury of the market but in the way that Nali and the other vendors were so quick to share their smiles, their greetings and well-wishes. Even Nali had needed time to warm up to Legolas at first, for all that he was one of Gimli’s closest friends, and now he laughed at Legolas’s jokes and teased him in turn.

And he was not the only one. Legolas had never felt so welcome here – never did at any other time of year – but there was something about the season, something about the joy of plenty and the particular delight of sharing it, that made even dwarves who treated him with suspicion spare him a smile in passing. He could feel the generosity Gimli had laughed about in the very air: the scent of the food, the sound of bustling laughter and chatter and the first set of musicians taking their places on the dais – all of it combined into a particular blend of sensation, one that warmed the heart better than any blanket or cloak – or even a mug of spiced wine.

And in truth, thought Legolas as they bade farewell to Nali at last with the promise to return to his stall before the day was at an end, his hand finding Gimli’s again with practiced ease, it was his great fortune to be welcomed into it.


End file.
